


Final Ascent

by threewalls



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Alternate Ending, Community: springkink, F/M, Prayer, Robophilia, Spiritual, Unbirthing, macro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-09
Updated: 2009-06-09
Packaged: 2017-10-15 02:42:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt: Vossler/Ultima - mindsex - finding religion</p>
            </blockquote>





	Final Ascent

Vossler awakens to red and gold, walls that shimmer with more light than substance, grotesque figures that drift at the corners of his sight. He expects to burn, or freeze, but then he has to laugh. Vossler cannot feel heat or cold here. He cannot feel anything.

His laugher echoes and becomes not his own, but a laughter like the chimes of a music box or bronze bells. Both, neither. A laughter that he hears not with his ears.

"We have not received prayer for aeons, little hume."

Her skin is blue like the Nebra, her wings gold like the Sands. Her hair is white, her dress is white, but she is Ultima, the heretic High Seraph, the instigator of the espers' betrayal and the Thousand-Year war of the Gods. From beloved and trusted servant to archtraitor, no one has fallen so far. But once, she guided the souls of the dead towards their next lives.

Vossler cannot remember what he promised her, as Shiva burnt and fell. Now, his spoken words fall clumsy from his mouth, his gratitude, his awe, his service.

Ultima begins to dance, drawing his eye with the sway of her skirts. She is singing, a voice he can hear with his skin. Vossler stumbles towards her.

The Mist-thick air explodes at her spell-casting. Life energy fills Vossler, through and through, feathers of pleasure and warmth that stirs his blood. He feels drunk. He feels like he is floating. He is running.

Ultima does not sing of the many, eternal paths to reincarnation, never again, but of resurrection, of power and of vitality she will give him. Cock spurting come, Vossler falls to his knees. He is naked. He does not notice. His body cannot fight the waves of magick forcing him down, and so he crawls, unable to bear the distance between them.

Ultima dances, casts and sings, and Vossler is her vessel, overflowing.

She lifts her skirts, higher than Rabanastre Cathedral, showing steps of bronze leading up underneath. The steps are slippery under his hands, thick, dark oil smearing on his knees, his calves.

Under Ultima's skirts, in the darkness, Vossler finds the opening in her flesh, an elasticity, a possibility surrounded by hard, hot metal. Ultima stretches slick around his interwoven fingers, his wrists, his arms, encasing Vossler in pulsing warmth. Her song gives way to groaning (like iron bars bending), to the licking of her voice over his mind, urging him further in.

In the darkness, there will be safety. Vossler bows his head and pushes forward with his shoulders. Ultima smells like soot, like incense, like myrrh, but tastes only like salt, just a little. The oil is thicker here, everywhere, and Vossler feels Ultima's lips close around his thighs. He twists like a kick underwater, pulling in his feet and curling small.

Vossler sleeps.

Ultima drops her skirts, places her palms above her womb, and closes her eyes, exultant in her serenity. She has patience in her captivity, and returns to planning.


End file.
